The Wrath of Imladris
by LondonBelow
Summary: Elrond is not happy with Aragorn. Elrond takes his revenge.


Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is not mine. It's J.R.R. Tolkien's. I'm writing for fun. Please don't sue me.

Dawn broke over the valley of Imladris. The guests of the House of Elrond slept—four very worn-out Hobbits, reeling from an unhealthy amount of adventure, and one wizard who could wake but simply cared not to, and had made clear his intention to hex any who attempt to disrupt his repose.

One very tired, very dirty, very achy Ranger, however, had been summoned to Lord Elrond's study.

"You… brought… it… here."

Aragorn liked to consider himself an imposing character. He had certainly cowed the hobbits in Bree, but that hardly counted. The local folk were all superstition, a stranger with no loose tongue proved quite the haint. When he met a worldly person and made him shake, even the littlest bit, Aragorn felt accomplished.

He was a well-grown-up man. Arathorn would be proud. Aragorn faced hordes of orcs without flinching. He had defeated Elves in archery competitions (not often, mostly when Elladan was drunk, but…). If he angered Gandalf, Aragorn supposed he might be frightened.

But there was one in Arda from whom a single world caused Aragorn to shake in his boots.

He swallowed and attempted, "Ada—"

"That tone hasn't changed since you were six years old," Elrond interrupted.

_It hasn't stopped working,_ Aragorn thought wryly. His thoughts must have shown in his expression, because Elrond continued sharply, "It won't work this time. You are all but grown, Estel."

As all the Elves in Rivendell, Elrond had difficulty considering a seventy-year-old an adult. This rankled at times—for instance when Erestor tousled his hair not an hour previous—but Aragorn had no trouble abusing the privilege. He was still a gap-toothed child in Glorfindel's eyes, and one of the few in the world who might so much as pet Asfaloth without incurring some wrath.

"No one has the skill to heal such a wound but you, Ada," Aragorn replied.

"Flattery!" Elrond cried, but his resolve was weakening. "You understand what this thing means, Estel. I know you do. We are fewer in number now than even in the days of your early childhood, and we were never, even at our peak, as strong as you thought us then. Do you think we can protect a thing of such great evil?"

Aragorn paled. Elrond's logic was sound. Even knowing this, Aragorn felt himself spun in darkness, the same shame and self-loathing he experienced as a child receiving a scolding. "I'm very sorry," he whispered, and he truly meant it. "I was desperate. Frodo might have died, the Nine were on our heels, I… I could think of nothing else."

Elrond nodded. "It's all right," he ceded at last. The fact was that he could never turn Aragorn away no matter what the circumstance. He loved him. "Your duty to this thing, to all who oppose this thing, is not complete by a far cry, but you and your companions shall have at least a few days to rest."

Aragorn rose. "Thank you, Ada," he murmured. He hugged Elrond tightly, then turned to go.

"Take a bath!" Elrond cried after him. "And burn those clothes," he grumbled. "Honestly. Men."

Later that same day, Aragorn wandered through the valley. He had bathed, in accordance with Lord Elrond's wishes. This was in accord with his own wishes as well, but he enjoyed the grief a speck of dirt or a teaspoon of oil seemed to cause the Elf. He smiled to himself. Relaxing his guard, sleeping in a soft bed, wearing familiar Elven robes and walking barefoot on mossy ground seemed to make the entire world well.

Aragorn paused when he heard Lord Elrond's voice. He seemed to be narrating a story.

"…about a month later developed enough coordination to take his clothing _off_, much to the amusement of everyone in Imladris. Well, not Glorfindel so much. Glorfindel doesn't care for mess."

"Don't Elvish children do that?" Pippin asked. "Hobbits do."

Merry added in an exasperated tone, "Yes, Pip certainly did. Until he was five!"

"Oh," Elrond replied, in a tone so thrilled it sent chills down Aragorn's spine, "of course Elvish children do. They simply do not strip and roll around in the mud, and fall asleep that way and not wander home from the stream until evening having lost all their clothing. And never in my knowledge has an Elfling refused clothing every summer until beginning to notice women."

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut. He would never live this down! He hurried past, avoiding detection by any Hobbit. Only Lord Elrond saw, and he gave his foster-son the wickedest of smiles.

_the end!_


End file.
